


a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, Other, Restraints, Rough Kissing, Scratching, She/Her Pronouns for Michael, Shipoween 2019, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Under-negotiated Kink, Wingfic, no actual sex because i chickened out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: The space just above Michael’s shirt collar is ever so tempting—really, it is unfair for an angel to inspire desire so easily, so unconsciously—and Beelzebub wants her.





	a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).

> Happy Shipoween!
> 
> The prompt asked for Beelzebub/Michael, hatesex, pinning one another down, rough wing play, and Beelzebub with insect wings. I hope this satisfies, even though I, uh, didn't actually include the sex part.
> 
> The title is from Hozier.

The elevator doors are barely closed before Beelzebub is slammed into the mirrored wall, the flat press of Michael’s hand against their chest firm enough to bruise. They grin; their reflection is warped and distorted in the copper-colored doors and it shifts their features into a vicious, taunting facsimile of a smile. It is ever so satisfying to get Michael to snap, to push and prod and needle like the keen-edged, pointed thing they are until all that poised, restrained heavenly composure slips.

The thrill they always get when a crack appears in Michal’s public persona races up their spine before settling in the pit of their stomach. It takes such _effort_ to get it to happen, it is truly a challenge and Michael a worthy opponent. But that only makes the prize so much sweeter in the end. 

The glass of the elevator wall is cool beneath their fingers as they press back, the floors quickly ticking upwards as they travel without interruption, thanks, perhaps, to a little demonic miracle. They can’t go fast enough for Beelzebub’s taste. They’ve done the work, now they want their reward.

Beelzebub presses against the hand restraining their chest, trying to push closer into Michael's space. Sometimes, if they are lucky, Michael will let them shove close, will let them pull at her fancy updo and bite her mouth in a bloody kiss. 

Today she doesn’t, and all Beelzebub’s struggles get them are a delicious pressure on the bruises on their chest as Michael holds them firmly at arm’s length. Michael’s jaw is clenched and tight, her mouth pressed into a firm line. But her eyes flash with a cold fire that tells Beelzebub that they have her, that they’ve cracked that iron self-control and tapped into the vein of anger and desire and _want_. 

At least for tonight.

“You’re going to have to let me get closer if this is going to go the way we both want it to.” 

Michael’s mouth tightens and it only makes Beelzebub want to bite her more. They can feel her fingernails digging into their chest through layers of clothing and they lean into it.

“You don’t—” Michael begins, only to be cut off by the soft chime announcing their floor.

The doors slide open and Michael lets her arm drop, pivoting swiftly to face the front of the elevator. Beelzebub experiences a pang of something that might be regret. Michael’s last vestiges of self-control are a real thorn in their side. They want them gone, they want her unrestrained and uninhibited, lost in the wanting. It looks like they still have some work to do.

They’re headed in the right direction, though. It’s only a question of how long it will take them to get there.

The door to the hotel room slams shut and Beelzebub is up against Michael before the angel can stop them, shoving her back against the door in a manner rather unlike how they had been restrained in the elevator. They use their whole body weight to press against the angel, sparing only a half-formed malicious thought towards whoever it was in the corporations’ department that decided to make their form so inconveniently thrice-damned short.

The space just above Michael’s shirt collar is ever so tempting—really, it is unfair for an angel to inspire desire so easily, so unconsciously—and Beelzebub wants her. The stretch up and bite the spot, the intoxicating taste of angel bursting over their tongue, sucking a mark high enough that Michael will have to miracle it healed or else wear a scarf and risk it slipping for the rest of her errand on earth. The idea of messing with Michael’s carefully coordinated wardrobe brings Beelzebub another vicious thrill.

They push in even closer as Michael slides a hand up around their throat, letting her cool palm rest their gently, fingers curled with just enough pressure to be a threat before releasing and slipping back to tangle in their hair. Beelzebub swallows and Michael tugs. It turns into a surprised gasp as the tug grows into a yank, wrenching their head back.

“You do love to use your teeth, don’t you?” Michael asks. The hand in Beelzebub’s hair is holding tightly enough that they’re certain she is pulling it out, keeping their face pointed directly at Michael. She gently cups Beelzebub’s jaw with her other hand and runs her thumb lightly over their lips. 

Beelzebub wants to lick her, wants to taste, wants to get their mouth back on the angel and sink their teeth back in. Wants to get to the part where they try and get under each other’s skin in the literal sense, get inside one another and wriggle around.

Michael has them firmly secured between the hand on their head and the one gripping their jaw but that doesn’t mean they’re going to stand here without comment. They stick out their tongue and lick Michael’s thumb as it swipes once more over their bottom lip. It tastes at once of hotel soap and standard human, with just a hint of the taste—of the dust-paper-ozone-mortal terror _essence_—of angel.

If Beelzebub had any sense, they would take that flavor for the warning it is. But they did not become Prince of Hell by being _sensible_ in the face of fear, and they’ve always preferred to chase power than run from it. So instead of running like any reasonable demon faced with heaven’s holy wrath they confront it, provoke it, return to it, searching for more.

Michael ignores the lick and instead pokes her thumb past Beelzebub’s lips to run the digit along their gums.

Beelzebub inhales sharply. The taste again of soap and human and just a hint of angel hits them squarely, all the more potent for the vulnerability of their position. Michael is right, they do love to use their teeth, love to leave shadowed bruises and bleeding cuts to mark where they go, but even their fists creasing wrinkles into Michael’s fine grey suit cannot erase how Michael holds them firm, how she runs her thumb over the flat of their teeth, safe from damage by virtue of holding too hard and getting too close.

It is infuriating. Beelzebub strains against the hold at their jaw but Michael only grips tighter (they know she enjoys giving bruises just as much as Beelzebub does, even if she won’t admit it.)

It is so incredibly hot.

“Are you going to kiss me already or are you going to spend all evening sticking your fingers in my mouth?” The words are a little mangled but even with the way Michael is prodding their mouth Beelzebub manages a smirk. “Because as much as I’m all for you exploring your kinks I am going to have to insist—”

Michael cuts them off, leaning down and kissing Beelzebub with bruising force, all the anger and frustration that they had been working so hard to elicit spilling forth into the press of lips and teeth and tongue. They grin into the kiss and bite at Michael’s lower lip, just a quick scrape of teeth. They aren’t sure if they mean it as a warning or a reward, and from the look on Michael’s face as she pulls back, she isn’t sure either.

“Get back here for hell’s sake,” Beelzebub says, grinding their teeth. The grip on their hair and their face is still hot but they’re losing patience with Michael’s reticence. If the archangel isn’t going to get with the program and get a move on, they are going to end up back in hell one annoyed and sexually frustrated demon. “Damn you and your stupid play at morality, I know you’re just as ruthless as I am so get a move on and _get us what we both want_.”

Michael goes very still as the curse hits her; Beelzebub can see the shivers ripple down her spine as she absorbs the sting, can feel the tightening of her fingers in their hair as Michael sucks in a breath. 

There is a pause. A clock somewhere in the room ticks past one second, then another. Then Beelzebub is wrenched around and shoved as Michael manhandles them onto the bed.

They laugh as they bounce on the mattress, taking a moment to appreciate the thrill in getting their way and the high thread count of the sheets underneath them. That angels have a taste for the finer things on earth is something that they never cease to marvel at. It seems almost wrong, too indulgent for the heavenly host to care about worldly pleasures, but they know demons truly care not for beautiful things. Demons are creatures bent only on destruction. Why, then, should their natural opposites not care about the physical creations of this plane?

Their philosophical musings are cut short by Michael, now intent on one of the most physical pleasures of the earthly plane, shoving them down flat on their back onto the mattress.

They grin up at her scowling face. “There. I knew you would see reason.” They expedite matters with a little demonic miracle and they are naked as the day their corporation was created. Their grin turns salacious as they arch and stretch as much as Michael’s overbearing form will allow.

If anything, Michael’s scowl darkens. “There is nothing reasonable about this,” she mutters.

Beelzebub laughs. It’s a bitter and cruel sound, but they are more annoyed than anything. “No. But you want it anyway.” Satan, honestly it is, to borrow a human expression, like herding cats, trying to get what they want sometimes. But what else can you expect, dealing with an angel? “Now hurry up and _strip_, angel, I want to get to the fun bits.”

Michael tilts her head. She is still, even after all their pushing and shoving, _still_ perfectly attired in her dove grey suit, her hair still neatly coiffed in its graceful updo. Beelzebub wants to mess her up, wants her to truly lose that calm composure, wants her to mess _them_ up. 

“If that’s how you want to play it,” Michael says softly.

She stands up and steps away from the bed. Beelzebub almost—almost—protests before Michael neatly strips off her suit jacket, draping it carefully over the back of a chair. Beelzebub tucks their arms beneath the back of their head, content for the moment to watch the objectively least erotic striptease in all of creation. (The fact that they find the entire utilitarian endeavor incredibly titillating is neither here nor there.)

But Michael—archangel, heavenly spymaster, bane of Beelzebub’s entire existence—seems to take the last of those titles to heart and stops after removing her jacket and remains otherwise buttoned up.

“Sit up,” she says.

Beelzebub does not think too hard about why they obey.

“You’re always so keen to get your way.” Michael circles the bed until she is facing Beelzebub’s back, pushing at their shoulder when they try and shift to follow. “No. Don’t move.”

Beelzebub subsides. There’s a knot of unease in their stomach, some holdover from the human nature of their corporation manifesting from their uncertainty. These encounters don’t usually go like this. Usually, they needle and goad Michael until the archangel gives in and they can enjoy a mutually pleasurable if antagonistic time together.

But Michael always gives in, if grudgingly, by this point. Once Beelzebub has her up in a room with the clothes off, once there’s been enough kissing to prove that yes, this is going to happen again, once they get to this then Michael will cede and give Beelzebub what they want.

They don’t usually do this, whatever this is. Not Michael refusing to take off her clothes, and bossing them around, and stalking around Beelzebub like they are a soldier present for her inspection.

Beelzebub crane’s their neck to try and follow Michael’s movements.

“Don’t move.”

They freeze.

“Face forward.”

Beelzebub shifts so that they are staring at the blank beige hotel wall. Their heart is beating rapidly in their chest and there’s a ringing in their ears—nothing so nearly as comforting as the familiar buzz of their flies, but a loud and overwhelming rush of noise.

They jump as Michael runs one cool finger down their shoulder blade. 

“Show me your wings.”

Beelzebub hesitates. Even as a shocked thrill runs through them the taboo raises a questioning eyebrow. This is not the sort of thing angels asked one another. Then again, they are a demon. And they are all for Michael cutting loose and giving them a peek at the angel’s secret fantasies. Who were they to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth?

They release their wings from their interdimensional hiding spot. Beelzebub isn’t certain what they expect Michael to do, but to immediately grab the edge of one and _pinch_ is not it. They flinch and try to pull away but Michael grabs their shoulder and holds them in place.

She trails her fingers down the deceptively delicate-looking web of iridescent lacework that forms Beelzebub’s wings. Beelzebub can’t stop them from twitching ever so minutely under the faint dragging touch. It tickles, almost, and they halfway want to reach back and smack Michael’s roving hands away, halfway want to lean into the touch and get more.

“You always did have such beautiful wings. Like lace, or dewdrops on a spiderweb in the morning sun.”

At that Beelzebub does jam back an elbow, connecting with a satisfying thump against Michael’s ribs. That satisfaction lasts for all of a second before they find themselves pressed, face first, into the mattress, the solid weight of Michael’s chest pressing into their back.

Michaels words are their own punch in the gut, and Beelzebub hisses, twisting to get away even as they long to enjoy the heady weight pressing them down. It’s a sore point, everything about Before, and Michael knows it. They manage to get a decent kick to connect with Michael’s thigh and growl their point.

“We can do it that way if that is how you want it,” Michael says as the soft, careful touches of her fingers turn to the scrape of perfectly manicured fingernails. “But right now, your wings are mine to admire and to do with what I like and the sooner you stop fussing the sooner we can get to the part you are waiting for.

Her breath is hot on the back of Beelzebub’s neck. The buttons of her blouse are digging into their back. Beelzebub grins, fierce and sharp, into the mattress, their flash of anger steeping into hot arousal. They wonder, only half caring, what makes Michael think they aren’t enjoying the current proceedings.

Well, apart from the protests. They are a demon, after all, and no night with an angel is going to go completely smoothly.

But they’d really like an orgasm or three sometime this evening. Fortunately, they have a willing, slightly unhinged archangel to help them with that. And if things didn’t start moving rapidly in that direction then Michal would really see what they really looked like when they complained. 

Beelzebub arches back against Michael, not to throw her off but to press harder into the nails digging into their wings, to feel the pressure of Michael’s weight holding them down. The combination sends a shiver down their spine and they have to bite back a gasp.

“Best get on with it, then,” they say, “do your worst.”


End file.
